Page 50 of Theirs for the Holidays

Isabelle starts undressing right in the middle of the room, and I hurry to one of the little changing stalls, glad for theprivacy. It must be nice to just feel confident enough to be in your underwear anywhere you want.

“Are you okay?” she asks out of nowhere.

I blink, half out of my jeans, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah?”

“I mean, you were in a lot of pain yesterday, right? It was all very dramatic.”

“Oh, yeah.” I grimace, chuckling ruefully. “My period caught me off guard is all. The first day is always pretty rough for me. After some rest and a lot of painkillers, I’m doing better today.”

It’s nice of her to ask, really. Isabelle is usually in her own world, focused on what’s going on with her, so it’s touching that she’s concerned about me.

“Oh. You left us high and dry over period cramps?” she asks then. “We had to make the final dessert decisions on our own because you just left. I asked you to come because I wanted your opinion, and then you weren’t there.”

And yup. That’s more like it. Classic Isabelle to bitch that she didn’t get what she wanted because I had to go take care of myself.

Of course, it’s not enough that I went there at all, after working all day. Of course it’s not enough that she completely overlooked the fact that I have my own bakery she could have been supporting. All she can focus on is the fact that I left because I didn’t feel well.

But that’s just Isabelle. She’s always been this way, and she will probably always be this way. So I sigh to myself, swallowing down my irritation. It’s a waste of time getting upset about something that won’t ever change.

“Andrew wasn’t much help either. He kept saying I could pick whatever I wanted, but if I knew what I wanted, I wouldn’t have asked you to come. So you see how it was inconvenient for me.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I tell her. “I would have stayed if I could, sorry.”

“Yes, your boyfriends whisked you out of there pretty quickly, didn’t they?”

There’s a tone on the word ‘boyfriends’, but I let that go too. I don’t want to dig too deep into that right now.

“They were worried,” I say simply, leaving it.

We get into our dresses, and I help Isabelle zip hers up the back. She looks beautiful because of course she does.

Her dress is princess-like without being over the top. The skirt is full, trailing behind her just enough to make it interesting, but not so much that she’s going to have to be managing it for the whole wedding.

The neckline is cut low to show a bit of cleavage, and the bodice hugs her trim waist tightly, showing off her amazing figure. The sleeves are long, since it’s a winter wedding, and the whole thing looks timeless and elegant in a way that makes me sigh with envy.

I remember going to countless bridal shops with her to find what she deemed ‘the perfect dress.’ There was a stretch of time where every dress she tried on had something wrong with it. Too long, not long enough, too lacy, not fancy enough, too low cut, too high necked, too many beads, ugly embroidery. On and on and on. And of course our mother just enabled her, reinforcing that she deserved to feel like the most beautiful woman in the world on her wedding day and saying that we’d just keep looking until she found what she wanted.

Luckily we didn’t end up finding a dress in another state or something, or it would have made the whole process even more trying than it already was.

And at least Isabelle’s not the sort of bride who has relegated her bridesmaids to wearing potato sacks to stand out. She’sgoing to do that already, so she let us pick from a selection of dresses all in the same color.

The dresses are lovely, in a deep, wine red color that goes along with the winter theme of the wedding. I even feel like I look good in it, which is rare for formal wear. The material has some give to it, so I don’t feel suctioned into it, and it’s long and flowy in a way that makes me feel light and pretty.

The seamstress comes back in and has us take turns standing on a raised platform in the center of the room. She walks around slowly, pulling fabric tighter or making notes about where things need to be let out.

The whole time, Isabelle chatters about the wedding.

“I just don’t understand why people are trying to make changes to the menu now,” she says, shaking her head. “RSVPs were due in weeks ago, and now Andrew’s coworker’s wife is trying to say she wants salmon instead of the steak because she ‘doesn’t want to do beef around the holidays.’ What does that even mean?”

“I… don’t know,” I tell her. “Maybe it’s a tradition thing?”

“A tradition she just realized she had in the last week?” Isabelle scoffs. “Probably she’s on a new diet or something and thinks the salmon will be healthier. Which would be fine if she had realized that weeks ago! It’s so annoying. This ismyspecial day. It has to be perfect, and I’m not going to let some accountant’s wife ruin it because she can’t decide between steak and salmon, you know?”

“It is inconsiderate of her. Did you tell her no?”

“I told Andrew to handle it. They’re on his list, since he justhadto invite work people.”

“Right,” I murmur.